You Made Me A Poet.
My words were never supposed to be entrapped within the dog eared pages of a new notebook.
They were created to fly over the tallest mountains and the greenest meadows; to swim across seven or eight or an infinite number of sparkling sea waters.
But they all remained as paintbrushes without colour,
Butterflies without wings, necklaces without beads,
Wrist ribbons without braids, and poetry without magic.
My words were letters put together, with no tinge of rhythm.
I knew I wasn't a poet.
"Write me a poem", your smile got wider.
And I could feel the colours, wings, beads, braids, and oh yes. Magic.
I created lovers and haters, ruiners and creators.
Chocolates and chilies, stars and lilies.
Sugar and spice, cats and mice.
Brownies and typewriters, preachers and fighters.
Rifles and blood, flowers and mud.
Medicines and cigarettes, promises and regrets.
Wolves and mangers, family and strangers.
They don't mean sense. I know they don't.
But we both chuckle. And you taught me to forget.
Plato whispered into my ear,
"At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."
Yes, you made me a poet.